Lost Lore and Otherwise Unconnected Stories
by Ghostey
Summary: A collection of short tales of heroes and heroines, laymen, and villains alike. Heavily lore based, emphasis on brief looks into the denizens of Azeroth.
1. Legacy

**Lost Lore and Otherwise Unconnected Stories**

Page 1: Legacy

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_Khadgar stood up he saw the master mage approaching him along with a gangly lad attempting to keep up beside him. With a curt bow, the young-old mage nodded, "Lord Krasus, I wasn't expecting to see you."_

_He smiled and laid his hand on the young man beside him. "I had wanted to see you off before you went back to Lord Lothar." Krasus raised his eyebrows, seeming to remember his companion and pushed the boy forward. "Master Khadgar, I'd like to introduce my apprentice Rhonin of Andorhal."_

_The young-old wizard's eyes twinkled at the student, recognizing the red-haired youth from before he left for Medivh's tower. He couldn't have been more than seven when Khadgar had first left but now the student was probably twelve or thirteen._

_Rhonin frowned at Krasus but nodded politely at Khadgar before looking back down at the ground._

_Krasus gave Rhonin a proud, slight smile, "Magus Medivh… despite his shortcomings he trained a capable apprentice." The Archmage faltered but quickly recovered, "I for one believe the Council should follow in that example." _

_Khadgar grinned and mussed with Rhonin's bright red hair. "Good to see."_

_The boy blinked at him owlishly but didn't speak._

"_He's a bit shy I'm afraid," Krasus apologized. The Archmage laid both his hands on Rhonin's shoulders and squeezed them lightly. "Nevertheless," Krasus continued somberly, "May the Light protect you on your way."_

* * *

The sun was bright above them, but no warmth fell from the celestial body. The brisk cool air that was all too common in Northrend blew across the small courtyard prompting Khadgar to adjust his robes tight around his body. The children didn't seem to mind though, as they fell back onto the ground exhausted from playing.

The younger mage beside him stood up and walked over to the boys. "Much better boys, no doubt your mother will be pleased with your progress." The children beamed at their father, and nodded in turn. Rhonin smiled, placing a hand on each of their heads and tussling with their hair. "Now go on inside, that's enough swordplay for today."

Rhonin sighed longingly as the two ran off towards the entrance to their private quarters. After a brief moment, hardly a second really, he returned to the old mage.

A folded map of Northrend and letters to Stormwind littered the small table between the two, most in regard to placating the situation at the Wrath Gate. Rhonin had asked for the old wizard's thoughts on the matter, and so Khadgar, for a time, left his post in Shattrath City to spend time back in Dalaran.

"It's a shame," Khadgar mumbled, fussing with his cup of tea, "I spent almost three years spending time with the late King Llane and young Varian. He's about the same age as you, you know Rhonin? Maybe two or three years older…"

The redhead nodded, tight lipped. He had nothing to say in regards to Varian Wrynn. It sometimes amazed Rhonin what fate gave to him, finding himself compared to Kings and other heroes of the world. If he had been told as a boy leaving Andorhal for the privilege and _honor_ of studying in Dalaran, that he, the youngest son of a farmer would wind up its leader? His six-year-old self would have laughed.

The thought was sobering. Fate was cruel.

Rhonin eyes flickered to the map on the table, the latest news of armies and resource points noted in careful script. He nervously bit the inside of his lip. "We grew up," the red-haired mage replied grimly.

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Disclaimer: Warcraft and related characters/storys/ideas are property of Blizzard Entertainments.

Author's Note: If you have any requests for particular characters or the sort, feel free to **leave a comment**. I love lore; I love seeing how things tick; I want to help flesh out bits that might be overlooked in some way.

That being said, **LEAVE COMMENTS**, and more will be on its way shortly.


	2. Snow

**Lost Lore and Otherwise Unconnected Stories**

Page 2: Snow

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A crash sent of the defenders to the ground as gargoyles dropped even more debris on top of the soldiers. Amidst the chaos, Highlord Tirion Fordring used Ashbringer to push himself up off the ground before any of the other soldiers had the chance to catch their breath.

"To your feet men!" He yelled over the roar. He brought Ashbringer forward and cannons behind them fired at the flying gargoyles. Those that hit their marks shattered the animate stone creatures, the ash raining down like snow. It swirled at Fordring's feet as his men struggled to get up, collecting in their armor and dusted their hair. They'd all be grey-haired like Fordring was soon enough, seeing far too many battles for such young men.

"Shields!" Cries came from the front ranks.

Their cannons were matched by the air singing with arrows cutting through the ash towards the defenders. "Another round!" Fordring shouted. Behind them the cannons erupted again, and the satisfying cry of frenzied Scourge retreating could faintly be heard over the rallies of the Argent Crusade.

This reprieve wouldn't last, Fordring knew, best to use the moment of this minor victory to press ever forward by inches, closer and closer to the dread Citadel. "ONWARD!" He roared, raising Ashbringer high in the air.

The men near him clutched their swords or axes wearily, but heartened at the sight of their leader. One by one they raised their own weapons. They each had something to fight for. Faith. Loyalty. Vengence. Honor. Yes, they'd have all those things when the Lich King would fall, Fordring promised himself.

He glanced at an apprentice dressed in Kirin Tor regalia staring at the ground to his side oblivious to the rest cheering. He grabbed a hold of her shoulder, attempting to draw the attention of the young woman. She looked up wide-eyed at him. "Sir I…" she gaped.

Fordring looked down. Her hands were wrapped around an arrow shaft, pressing against her abdomen weakly. The paladin pulled her hands away into his, the mage's palms were thoroughly stained red. The wizard fainted in his arms and he lowered her to the ground. He glanced around them, most of the soldiers preoccupied with their own wounds or wounded, readying themselves for the next push, or congratulating their fellows. "Ay!" He barked to no one, "Cleric!"

A fresh-faced young man seemed stumble out of the chaos, eyes wide in panic as he came upon Fordring. He was covered in dirt and ash like most, but the Highlord could still discern the white and gold crest of Theramore upon the lad's breastplate. "Oh no…" he breathed, his body shaking as he knelt beside them.

"Marine, take this woman to the medics," Fordring ordered.

"Yes sir, thank you sir," he replied hastily, not at all focused on the Highlord as the older paladin helped the mage into the marine's arms.

Before he could rush off, Fordring grabbed the marine's arm and held his free hand over the wizard's stomach. It glowed briefly, but soon faded. "She should make it, but nevertheless make haste to the priests," Fordring warned quietly.

The marine nodded somberly and turned away, disappearing back into the host of soldiers.

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Author's Note: Less lore this time, more about imagery. Either way, enjoy.


End file.
